Runcible Spoon

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Bare Feet


over a floor

of fire


the hot coals

of nothing to drink

and even less

to eat


when I fall into bed

it may as well be

a grave


the dark is here

and much of the smell



and all the horror

that never leaves you

like a child that won’t let go

of your hand in a

busy mall


sticking close

over flame


kicking off the blanket

I am slick with